It's A Nautical World, After All

by Jan Richman, Special to SF Gate

Published 4:00 am, Monday, April 23, 2001

You follow the Embarcadero in Oakland alongside the freeway for a few miles south of Jack London Square onto a deserted strip of land until you see a bright light blinking in the sky. No, it's not an alien spaceship swooping down to abduct you, nor is it a police helicopter keeping this industrial corner of the Oakland estuary safe for democracy. It is the lantern room at Quinn's Lighthouse in Embarcadero Cove, its lens flashing white light every five seconds on the dot, signaling to wayward sailors that their turkey burgers are ready.

Thar she blows. Grub in a nautical setting at Quinn's Lighthouse.

For Quinn's Lighthouse, built in 1890 to serve the entrance to Oakland harbor and moved brick by brick to its present location in 1965, now serves traditional American cooking. Modern navigation technology has rendered the whole notion of a lighthouse and its live-in keeper kitschy and obsolete, and in 1984, Quinn's sloughed its surveillance station incarnation and embraced the maritime kitsch aspect. It opened as a restaurant and pub, adorned with a bevy of nautical frills -- including more than 100 impeccably fashioned model clipper ships and trophy cases full of miniature rope-knots -- featuring weekly entertainment by a group of musicians who reportedly look as though they might reside on their crusty tugboats between gigs.

"Get rowdy with the SONS OF THE BUCCANEERS!" says the poster in Quinn's foyer (situated below a model ship perched on the molding on whose brass name plate is etched "Gorch Fock"). "These fellows sing sea chanteys, forebitters and tunes of traditional seafarers!"

The ground floor restaurant is lovely, lined in dark wood and windows that overlook the quiet marina, and empty as a church. But you hear yelps and wheezy accordion squeals coming from the second floor pub, and so you quickly climb the stairs (pausing briefly on the landing to buff your shoes with the automatic polisher) and step into another world.

The room is packed with people, sitting at tables or standing in a carpet of peanut shells at the long bar in back. Onstage, five men are acting out a dramatic performance: One, in a sailor's cap with a dinghy around his neck, is telling a dirty story about his visit to a brothel in a convincing fake brogue. The others are heckling him mercilessly, puncuating the especially obscene parts with musical flourishes on the drums, banjo, concertina and fife. One old salt wearing an eye patch sits on a stool among the musicians, not playing any instrument, just adding an occasional "You don't say, matey!" in his booming basso.

Certain members of the audience seem, somehow, to know all the lyrics. A couple of middle-aged men in suits at the bar are belting out verses upon verses without missing a syllable, and a young woman who is smoking a cigarette on the patio sticks her head in through the sliding glass door to join in on the choruses. Most of the Buccaneers' songs -- work songs, English music hall pieces, Early American tunes, old world ballads -- have two things in common: obscenity, and a call-and-response structure. It is the perfect formula for a truly interactive experience.

You manage to squeeze into an empty spot at the bar and order a lager. On the back of the bar menu is a brief write-up about the legend of Richard Turner Quinn. Apparently, when he emigrated from England in the 19th century, he was asked his name and trade. He said "writer," but they heard "fighter" and sent him over to Oakland to capture fearsome pirates Perilous Pete and his wife. It doesn't say if he succeeded, but you need only to glance up from your beer to note several people who might feasibly answer to the name Perilous Pete.

Between sets, you venture out behind Quinn's to sit on a gigantic rusty anchor and have a smoke. As your eyes become accustomed to the darkness, it becomes clear that Embarcadero Cove is more than just an excuse for a displaced lighthouse. The marina and its environs, carved through with brick paths and quaint gardens, stuttered with public benches and old-fashioned courtyard lanterns, fall somewhere between the Pirates of the Caribbean and Tom Sawyer Island in theme-parky Disneyish charm.

A dozen or so picturesque restored Victorians are placed along the landscaped beachfront, with hand-carved wooden shingles hung out on porches, specifying "Law Office" or "Doctor." Further up the path, you spy several beautiful huge ships dry-docked and theatrically lit, polished brass rails curling around their crow's nests, mermaid silhouettes painted on their voluptuous rumps.

When you return to the pub, the band members are still drinking beer and chatting with their fans. You think you recognize the main singer from the old Ghiradelli Wine Cellar music series (or does he just look familiar from Popeye the Sailor Man cartoons?) and you ask him his name, which is on the tip of your tongue.

"It's in between Hop and Bounce," he advises, winking and casually oscillating the ancient squeezebox that hangs around his neck. Then you remember. Skip. Of course. What better name for a seafaring buccaneer dressed as a castaway, pounding the floorboards of an authentic lighthouse set in the middle of a fake Victorian enclave in a forsaken part of Oakland?

You order another lager and crack open a peanut, studying the architecture of the classic reef knot and the Spanish bowline on the wall in front of you, wondering if a true bonnie lass would be able to recognize the difference.